The crawling of the sun stood above us,

yet dreaming,

yet

those pleasing thoughts of nowhen.

And

do you remember

where we used to gather’ round?

Six in the morning.

I woke those memories of Westminster up.

Memories,

choirs of you and I.

Those memories of when I looked up on your face

to find the perfect ryhme

hiding in a page of porcelaine.

And

do you remember

when we used to gather’ round a bed?

We all took each other hands

¡O masturbating chaos!

We all licked those hands of body as the crowd cheered up

the promiscuity of our pencils

and of our poems,

selling themeselves down the street like cheap whores.

It just reminds me the sluttery of art.

True art.